


Designed for Wicked

by clarkoholic



Category: Doom (2005), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe, Bar Room Brawl, M/M, Post-Doom, Reaper!McCoy, pre-Academy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:14:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkoholic/pseuds/clarkoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not going dwell on the sudden swelling of his Grinch heart. Just like he’s not thinking about the beautiful kid sleeping in his living room. He has to focus after all; he’s got a man to kill tomorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **timeline.** Doom is set in 2046. This story is set in 2253, 207 years after Doom, 5 years before the events of Star Trek XI and 2 years before Kirk  & McCoy join Starfleet. John is 28 when he’s “changed” in the events of Doom. Jim is 20 yrs old. John is 235 yrs old but looks 28 yrs. FYI.
> 
> Additionally, this was started three years ago and is not complete. I hope to someday finish it but know that it is not, for now. I'm hoping posting will help encourage me to get back to it and hopefully you'll enjoy what's here so far. I also haven't actually read it in a long time so please let me know if I haven't warned for something that needs warning. Thanks.

He’s sitting alone in the back of the full bar, surveying the room from behind his glass as he takes an obligatory drink. He’s not there to get drunk. He’s not scanning the crowd looking to get laid. He’s got his eyes on the Target and using the crowd for camouflage so the man he been contracted to kill won’t notice him. The man is a cocky son-of-a-bitch who, apparently, pissed off someone enough to get a price on his head, but he doesn’t strike John as particularly dangerous. An arrogant dick, sure, but probably a better person than John’s ever been.

Though, he’s seen people killed for a lot less.

It’s not something he’s proud of, being a man for hire. He spent a few decades after Olduvai trying to rebuild himself into respectable man, but old habits and all that. Sam went on with her life, started a family, grew old and died like the rest of the world. Like she was supposed to. Like he wishes he could. Two hundred and thirty five years takes a toll on ones soul. He knows now that spending a few lifetimes practicing different professions and loving different people isn’t enough to forget what made you into the person you truly are. He chose to become a killer in his twenties and it only took him a few hundred years to finally stop denying it.

He’s lost a number of loved ones over the years. Being immortal—or whatever the fuck he is—he simply outlives them. The grieving became easier person-by-person, as awful as it sounds, and the quaint and respectable life he spent so long trying to gain was stripped away more and more with each of their deaths. Although, the grief of losing someone prematurely—before he could watch her grow old gracefully—by another’s hand was painful enough to send him right back into his old dangerous ways. Now he causes that pain for others. Oh the irony.

The Target makes a move to the exit and John instantly rises from his seat to follow. He takes a long drag of his cigarette as he maneuvers through the swaying, inebriated bodies, keeping his casual pretense in place as not to raise any attention to himself. There’s a commotion at the end of the bar, near the door, where his Target is nearing. He pointedly ignores the commotion as it turns into a full-blown fight. Typical, he thinks. All it takes is one jackass and a girl. There’s yelling and shoving and glass breaking but his focus remains on the man he’s about to kill.

He’s good at this job—not that he’s boasting. He doesn’t ask questions. He receives a name, due date and credit amount, and that’s all he wants to know. The rest is for God, or whomever, to sort out. He’s become calmer with each job, because it is what it is and there’s no sense in trying to question the morality—or rather, immorality—of it. It’s not about killing a man any more; it’s going through the motions. The steps are simple enough; locate, acquire and eliminate. The trick is to-

Someone slams into him, knocking the cigarette from his mouth and sending him into a nearby table. Drinks spill on him, soaking his jacket, and the girls sitting at the table scream, jumping back from their seats. The idiot who knocked him down starts pawing at him, trying to climb off, muttering apologetically, “Ow fuck, man. Sorry!”

John grabs the kid’s shoulders and shoves him off with an irritated grunt, sending him stumbling back into the fight. He shakes the liquid off his arms and wipes his hands against his jeans, scowling. His instinct is to help the kid from the pummeling he’s receiving—by the much larger of two jackasses—but it’s not his problem. He has a job to complete.

He scans the crowd by the door, where his Target was nearing, but he can’t spot him. He goes outside to check the street but there’s no trace of which way he went. “Shit,” he exhales, running his hand through his hair. He lost him. He considers going to the Target’s apartment, knowing it’s his likely destination, but shouting from inside draws his attention back to the bar.

He walks back inside as someone is yelling for someone to do something because the poor guy is getting the shit kicked out of him. John lets out an exasperated sigh, deciding to help the idiot who just screwed up his job. He shoves his way through the crowd that’s eagerly watching yet unwilling to help. He grips the arm about to smash into the unmatched opponent again and says, as put upon as he can, “That’s enough.”

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off me,” the guy says, looking back at John.

The other steps forward to stand in front of John. John raises an eyebrow at him, silently challenging him to try something. “This ain’t your fight, man,” the friend says. He steps closer, inches away, and growls, “Back the fuck off.”

John grins, looks from one to the other and then swiftly slams his forehead against the unsuspecting face in front of him. The guy stumbles back, gripping his nose and groaning. John takes the arm still in his grip and wrenches it behind its owners back. “I said that’s enough,” he whispers angrily, pulling up on the arm for added effect.

“Ah, alright!” the man squeals, “Alright!” He raises his other arm in surrender and releases his hold on the kid. John pulls him back and pushes him into his fumbling friend. They scramble away from him, stumbling and cursing their way out of the bar.

John turns to the kid—who’s barely holding himself up against the bar and smiling through dripping blood—and nods. He ignores the shock and awe on the faces of the crowd as he leaves the bar; he doesn’t need to be here if people start asking questions. Especially if the manager decides to file a report, though that doesn’t seem likely after they let the fight continue in the first place. Even after two hundred years, John’s still astounded that people, in general, won’t lift a finger to help someone else. Apparently, it takes an assassin to break up a bar fight nowadays.

Outside, the air is cool and welcoming compared to the stale humidity of the bar, and if temperatures affected him, he’s sure his beer soaked jacket would be really annoying right about now. He inhales the fresh air and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, deciding to go home instead of trying to find his Target again. He’ll follow him home tomorrow and finish the job properly.

He hears someone call from behind and he spares a glance over his shoulder to see the kid—bloody and out of breath, but still smiling—jogging toward him.

“Thanks… for that,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” John mumbles with a dismissive wave. The kid catches up and starts walking next to him. Finally John barks, “What?” but doesn’t bother to slow his pace.

“I don’t… um… what’s your name?” he asks, breathless. He’s clutching his side and there’s blood dripping from his nose, mouth and from a cut above his eye.

“Jesus,” John grumbles, stopping to take in the sight of the kid swaying dangerously before of him. It’s been years since he’s practiced but his doctor tendencies creep up on him when he sees a pup in need. He grabs the kid’s arm and ushers him down the street to the closest bench. “Sit down,” he orders.

The kid grimaces but does as he’s told. John kneels in front of him to examine his wounds. His breathing is rough and he’s wincing in pain. “Are you a docto- ow!” He gasps when John presses a hand to his side.

“Used to be,” John says, leaning back on his haunches. “Looks like you’ve got some bruised ribs and that cut’ll need treatment.”

“Figured.” He wipes blood from his nose with his sleeve. “You didn’t answer me.”

John quirks an eyebrow, “Answer what?”

“What’s your name?”

“McCoy,” he says out of habit. On paper, he’s been Leonard McCoy for over twenty years. “Leonard McCoy.”

“Jim Kirk,” the kid says, extending his hand.

John forces down a grin that’s threatening to appear and takes his hand. He’s got to give it to the kid; he’s tough. Seems completely unfazed by being beaten up. “Take it this isn’t your first time?”

Jim grins then grimaces when the cut on his lip stretches, “It happens,” he says, indifferent.

“Right.” John stands with a nod and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking at their surroundings. “Look, there’s a hospital a few blocks east.”

“Nah, I’m ok.” Kirk moves to get up, “thanks for the help.” He gives John a pat on the shoulder as he stands but he sways and his knees buckle beneath him. John’s quick to catch him and he eases him back onto the bench.

“You were sayin’?” He’s about to laugh but the kid—Jim, was it?—groans again, leans over the side of the bench and vomits. John lets out a breath, knowing he should comm an ambulance and leave. That he should mind his own goddamn business but he also knows he won’t. “Ok, get up,” he says, despite the fact that Jim’s still heaving onto the sidewalk.

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Jim says between gasps. He looks ghastly but Jim has a resolve about him John finds respectable. “I’ll be fine. Stood up too quick s’all,” he says with a lopsided grin as he wipes his mouth.

“Mhm.” John rolls his eyes. “Come with me.” He slides his arm under Jim’s and pulls him up, shouldering his weight.

“Where?” Jim asks, looking skeptical. Or queasy, he’s not quite sure.

“Do you want to go to the hospital or not?”

“Not,” he says firmly.

“Then shut up and come with me.”

Jim nods, allowing John to lead him down the dark streets. In the back of his mind, John wonders just what the hell he’s doing, bringing this kid home with him. He’s not a doctor anymore; he’s a goddamn assassin. He shouldn’t bring people into his life, let alone his home, for their safety and his. Yet here he is, helping Jim Kirk up the stairs of his building because he can’t keep himself upright.

“Nice place,” Jim mumbles as John deposits him on the couch.

“Home sweet home,” John mutters and goes to retrieve a towel and his old medical kit—once a doctor, always a doctor, or whatever—from the bathroom. He stops by the kitchen on his way back, pulls a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet and discretely deposits the gun from the back of his jeans into a drawer. He tosses Jim the towel and holds out the bottle as he sits on the coffee table. “For the blood and pain.”

“I knew I liked you,” Jim says with a smirk before taking a swig. John digs into his medkit and prepares his ancient dermal regenerator for the gash on Jim’s forehead. “You always bring strange guys home to patch up?” Jim asks through the towel held against his nose.

John raises an eyebrow. “You always go with strangers to a second location?”

Jim merely shrugs with a small laugh.

“Hold still,” John instructs, holding the regenerator above his cut as it begins to repair the broken skin.

Jim hisses, “It stings.”

“No it doesn’t. Don’t be such a infant.”

Jim smiles—and John’s definitely not thinking about what a nice smile it is, now that it’s not covered in blood. Just like he’s not thinking about the messy blond hair and brilliant blue eyes.

“You’re kind of mean for a doctor,” Jim says playfully.

“So I’ve heard,” he says with a small grunt of a laugh. The end of the cut stitches itself back together and he wipes away the last bit of blood.

“Hey McCoy?”

“Yeah?” John says, turning off the dermal regenerator and packing it away.

“You aren’t some kind of serial killer, are you?” Jim asks casually, as if he’s asking for the time.

John panics for a split second until he follows Kirk’s line of sight to Fred, his old skeleton from medical school. He breathes an unnoticeable sign of relief and grins. “Told ya I was a doctor.”

“And you keep a pile of bones in your apartment because…”

“S’not a pile of bones. That’s Fred.”

Jim raises an eyebrow. “You named it?”

John scowls at him. “Shut up.”

“Hey I’m not judging.” Jim raises his hands in surrender. 

“I’m not the idiot who got my ass kicked over some girl.”

“She wasn’t just _some girl_!” Jim protests.

“Oh yeah?” John’s seen his type before. Hell, he’s been the type. Fuck anything that moves; Jim Kirk has enough looks and confidence to pull it off. “What’s her name?”

Jim opens his mouth and stares blankly for a moment before snapping it shut with a defeated sounding, “Hmph.”

John laughs, “Thought so.” 

Jim starts to laugh, full and loud, but his ribs object the movement and he groans, clutching at his side with a sharp intake of breath, and John’s already rising. “Take off your shirt and have another drink,” he says, heading to his closet to find an old-fashioned bandage to wrap his ribs. It’s been so long since he’s treated anyone—what with being a loner and having superhuman healing—that he hasn’t had the need to keep his medkit up to date. He feels guilty for not even having a hypo to give the kid some pain meds. “You should’ve gone to the hospital.”

“I hate hospitals,” Jim wheezes.

“Everybody hates hospitals,” John says, walking back with the wrap in hand. “Doesn’t mean you don’t go when you’re bleedin’ to death.” Of course Jim would be another thickheaded frat boy who thinks he’s invincible. John’s seen too many young guys Jim’s age die in the emergency room from unnecessary and idiotic accidents.

Jim’s quiet while John wraps his ribs and he makes a good effort to hide how much it hurts but John sees the way his brow knits and his face cringes when he pulls the wrap tight. Doesn’t take a genius to see Jim’s drained; dark circles already under his now drooping eyes. Anyone would be exhausted after a night like his. And fuck, John already knows he’s going to make him stay the night. He can’t let Jim leave in his condition.

He’s beginning to feel grateful he lost his Target tonight because it allowed him to help Jim. He thinks about what would’ve happened to him if he hadn’t been there to stop those jackasses. Jim might be a brash moron but he speaks his mind and there’s just something about him John finds appealing.

“What do you do?” Jim finally asks, his voice strangely soft.

“Hm?” grunts John, still lost in his thoughts.

“Said you used to be a doctor. Why’d you quit?”

“Too much death,” he lies. There’s that irony again.

“What do you do now?”

“This and that.” Vague is always a good route when someone starts asking too many questions about his life. “You?”

The corner of Jim’s mouth quirks up, “This and that.” 

John chuckles, securing the end of the bandage and Jim asks, “Why were you at that shithole tonight?”

“Why do you ask so many goddamn questions?” John quips and hands him the whiskey bottle. He goes to his bedroom and grabs a blanket and pillow. He pulls a t-shirt out of the closet while he’s at it. Jim gives him a strange look when he returns but John speaks before he can ask. “Doubt you’ll even make it down the stairs.”

Jim looks at him with a mixture of relief and gratitude, and John knows he made the right decision, regardless of how much his head is screaming at him for allowing this kid remain in his dangerous vicinity. He sets the blanket and pillow at the end of the couch and tosses the shirt onto his lap. “No need for ya to sleep in a bloody shirt. Kitchens in there. Not much in it. Bathroom’s there,” he says, pointing to their respective locations. He hooks his thumb to point back to his room. “I’m down the hall if you need anything.”

Jim nods and John turns to leave but Jim stops him with, “Hey… um, thanks.” It’s the first time in a long time that John’s heard someone say something so fucking genuine. It’s like the kids never had anyone take care of him before.

John grunts and nods; he’s been dealing with crooks and generally bad people for too many years, he’s used to constant lies and always being on guard. Never did he expect twenty-year-old Jim Kirk’s thank you to mean so much.

He waits in his room long enough for Jim to fall asleep before going to check on him. Jim’s out like a light, lying awkwardly on John’s small couch, and would look almost peaceful if he didn’t have dark, swelling bruises littering his features.

John finally goes to bed, feeling assured the kid’s going to be ok. He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, and wonders when he became a mother hen. What is it about Jim that makes him want to help him?

“Hrmph.”

He rolls over and punches the pillow under his head into submission. He’s not going dwell on the sudden swelling of his Grinch heart. Just like he’s not thinking about the beautiful kid sleeping in his living room. He has to focus after all; he’s got a man to kill tomorrow.

**\\\**

He’s a ghost.

It’s a cliché in the assassin business but that doesn’t mean there isn’t truth to it. Being a ghost is what makes him such a good executioner. He’s had decades to perfect the stealth skills he learned in the Marines. Even before he wound up in his current line of work, he found it useful to go unnoticed. Be light on your feet, quick with your hands, quiet as a mouse and able to run fast, albeit quietly. His skills made gaining access to his Target’s apartment as easy as walking into his own.

He can’t risk the job taking another day. It has to be finished tonight. That’s why he’s wandering around a soon-to-be dead man’s apartment, waiting for him to return and meet his fate. He makes sure not to touch anything, as to not leave any traces, so he walks about, observing.

He flicks his hand, making his garrote swing in a circle. It’s an eerily playful gesture for such a vicious weapon. He doesn’t particularly like using a garrote but strangulation is easier to pass off as suicide and significantly cleaner. The gun holstered in the back of his jeans is for reassurance. There’s something about having it with him at all times that’s comforting. It’s the military man in him, he supposes. He finds them much more useful than the standard phasers of the times. Old-fashioned firearms are hard to come by nowadays but he’s got a stockpile he keeps well oiled and cleaned. Although, no matter how comfortable he is with a gun, he prefers not to use it for assassinations because it draws too much attention. Plus it’s a mess and he hates messes.

He sits in the corner of the living room next to the window, out of sight but with a view of the building’s entrance. He’ll wait until the Target’s inside, door locked and comfortably relaxing his day away. He doesn’t like to dwell on the specifics of what’s to come because usually his instincts kick in and take over. He doesn’t need to prepare mentally and he’s already physically ready, so he lets his mind wander and it goes straight to that morning.

Jim was gone by the time he woke, leaving a scribbled note hanging from John’s skeleton’s mouth. John pulls the note from his pocket and reads it again.

_Thanks for the fix up._

_See you around, Bones._

_—Jim_

Bones? That’s a new one, he thinks, grinning, and tucks the note away. He wonders what Jim’s doing. Where he lives and if he’s feeling better. And what the fuck, he thinks, shaking his head. He’s waiting in a strangers home, about to _kill_ him and he’s worried about some kid with a few bruised ribs. What the hell’s wrong with him?

Later, when the sun has been set for hours, he finally hears his Target in the hall outside the apartment door. “Shit.” He didn’t see him enter the building. He scrambles from the living room and hides in the hallway, out of sight but with easy access for maneuverability. 

The door opens and right away he can hear the Target isn’t alone. Fuck. He ducks further down the hallway and into the bedroom. There’s not enough time to get out the window to the fire escape so John hides in the bedroom closet. The laughing and slurred prattle grows louder and the couple stumbles into the bedroom and falls, limbs intertwined, onto the bed.

 _Oh just great._ He can’t kill the guy now, because he’s not going to kill an innocent woman, _and_ he’s stuck hiding in the fucking closet while they have sex in front of him.

It’s times like this when he wishes he had friends to share his crazy experiences with. He thinks maybe he could tell Jim about it, if he ever sees him again, but then he remembers that little part where he’s only there to kill the guy so its not really an appropriate story to share. Although, for some reason, he thinks maybe Jim wouldn’t mind so much. He might understand…

He silently sighs, shaking his head. He’s a contract killer, of course Jim wouldn’t understand. And who does John think he is for assuming stuff about this kid? He doesn’t know shit about him, besides his name and that he’s the most attractive man John’s seen in years.

Goddamnit, why can’t he get this kid out of his head?

A gasp draws his attention back to the couple and he peeks through the crack of the closet doors. The woman’s now lying naked on the bed and the Target’s perched over her with his head between her legs. She writhes under him and moans louder when his hand slips below to join his mouth, and John absolutely does not groan when his cock jerks to life.

_Fucking wonderful._

She moans, her back arching, and his free hand digs into her thigh, holding her in place while she screams his name as she comes. He looks up at her with a shining smile and starts to climb up her, licking and biting along the way, making her giggle through her sated stupor. He reaches his arm under and pulls her up, “I want to fuck you like this,” he says and flips her over.

She gets on her knees and he slaps her ass, eliciting a sultry moan from her. She looks back to him and says, “Harder, you pussy.” He flashes her an excited smile and follows orders. She moans louder with each slap until he stops and finally slides into her forcefully. They both groan as he puts his hands on her hips and pulls back, taking her deep.

John’s not a prude. He has sex, watches porn, the usual, but watching them in secret is way more of a turn on than he would’ve thought. His cock is embarrassingly hard; the slightest shift has him biting his lip to suppress a groan. It takes all of his self-control to not rub it out with them, so, naturally, an image of Jim’s taut chest pops in his head. Of John’s hands grazing softly across his warm skin as he wrapped his ribs. The brownish-blond trail of hair leading below his belt and—fuck—now all he can think is how he wants to take Jim the same way. He wants to see that beautiful face in ecstasy, saying _his_ name.

The pair’s practically screaming as they come and it’s the most ridiculous thing John’s ever heard. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they know they have an audience. Eventually, though, they settle for the night and he feels relieved, knowing he’ll be able to sneak out soon enough and take care of this damned hard on.

He groans, exasperated, and palms his cock through his jeans in an effort to relieve the pressure, trying to ignore the mental image of Jim’s mischievous, confident grin and perfect body. Too many images of him doing too many filthy things to Jim continue to flicker through his mind but he’s not going to lose his control now. He’s not about to jerk off in his Target’s fucking closet. He’s a professional after all.

He leans back against the wall of the closet, sighing, and wonders when he became this pathetic man.

**\\\**

He’ll be eternally grateful the walk from the Target’s apartment to his own isn’t far because his dick is throbbing and it rubs uncomfortably against his jeans with each step. He’s a block away from his building when he sees Jim standing out front, swinging his arms in a bored manner. Fuck, John thinks. He stops, shifts his legs and hopes his jacket covers his now even harder bulge. He double checks that his gun and garrote are stowed properly in their respective hiding spots before continuing down the street.

Jim’s bruises look severely worse than yesterday but he smiles brightly when he greets John. “Hey Bones.”

“Don’t call me that.” John scowls but Jim just laughs. “What do you want?” John asks, walking past him to the door.

“Want to grab a beer?”

“Shouldn’t you take a night off? It’s 0330,” he says, looking at his watch.

Jim shrugs, “Nah, I’m all right.”

John’s not surprised when Jim follows him up the stairs and he rolls his eyes, regardless if Jim can see him.

“I know a place that’s still open. It’s really chill… no fights, I swear,” Jim says, raising his hand like he’s swearing in court.

“Don’t you have any friends?” John says, and it comes out more malicious than he intended, which is a frequent problem of his. It’s not lost on him, though, when Jim hesitates and looks uncomfortable before completely ignoring the question.

“Come on, just one beer,” Jim persists.

John thinks for a moment as they reach his door. Jim’s eager to spend time with him—and he really doesn’t understand that because he’s not a very pleasant person. He likes the kid, though— _obviously_ —so he unlocks the door, steps in and nods his head for Jim to follow. “Fine, but I gotta shower first.”

Jim walks past and eyes him quizzically. “Did you just get back from a booty call?” he asks, jokingly.

John smirks, closing the door. “Something like that.”

Jim’s smile falls a little. “Ah,” he says with a thin smile and nod.

John’s not sure what to make of the look. He shrugs internally and walks straight to the bathroom, yelling over his shoulder, “Don’t touch anything!”

He gets into the shower as quick as he can; the water feels good sliding over his back and shoulders but it doesn’t relieve the tension radiating from his groin so he closes his eyes and thinks of Jim again. Of his bluer than blue eyes and full lips, those blue eyes looking up at him while the full lips are wrapped around him.

The moment he grips his cock he has to suppress a moan, the poor thing’s strained beyond what he’d usually allow. He strokes slowly at first, allowing the bent-up pressure to ease and turn pleasurable again. He takes a deep, calming breath and imagines what it’d be like if Jim walked into the bathroom right then and saw him.

_Jim knocks but doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s bursting in, saying something irrelevant that it dies on his lips when he looks at John, still fisting his cock. Jim’s initial shock quickly morphs into a predatory smirk and without hesitation he starts stripping off his clothes in a manner that makes John think he’s had professional experience._

_His sculpted muscles—that are just screaming to be licked and bitten—glisten under the low yellow light when he steps in front of John, under the stream of water. Jim slides his hands across John’s shoulders and down his sides. He tantalizes John with light touches, making him gasp and buck forward until Jim finally takes his dick in his hand and John stops breathing all together. Jim’s fingers trail his length and work their way to tease at his hole, and he’s smiling with that shit-eating grin that John just wants to fuck right off his face._

_John growls at him—because it’s what he does best—and Jim’s laugh echoes off the tile. He moves closer, until they’re pressed so tightly not even a drop of water could get through. Jim grips their dicks in one hand while the other scrapes along John’s back and John moans into his neck, his own hands gripping Jim’s ass and his teeth marking a trail from just under Jim’s ear to his collar bone._

_Jim stops his strokes and John groans until he realizes Jim’s now on his knees and his cock-sucking lips are doing just that by enveloping John in such complete bliss that he has to place a hand on the shower wall for support. Jim’s tongue swirls the tip of his cock, lapping droplets of water and cum._

_“Fuck,” John grunts out and Jim responds by wrapping his lips around him and sliding forward until John hits the back of his throat._

_John runs his hand through Jim’s wet locks, grips the back of his head and lets the heat overtake him. Steam fills his lungs and his thigh tremble. Jim hums through his slow and hard motions and he makes John come with a low, long grunt._

A small gasp escapes his lips as he comes over his fist. He drops his head into the stream and leans against the wall, letting the scalding water wash over him. After a moment he cleans up and finishes his shower, hoping he’s not taking too long as to arouse suspicion. 

He goes to his bedroom to change and stashes his garrote in a drawer. He’s about to holster his gun in the back of his jeans but he hesitates. Does he really need a gun to have a drink with this kid? It’s not like he can’t handle himself without it. He could kick anyone’s ass with his bare hands. He exhales, puts the gun away and adjusts his shirt before heading back into the other room. He knows he’s been acting differently since meeting Jim—he’s letting his guard down too often—but he’s not ready to acknowledge what it means.

“Ready,” he says casually. Jim actually gives him a once over, and it’s the first time he thinks maybe Jim isn’t just some lost little idiot, but that maybe he’s interested in John as well. Was that a look of disappointment earlier?

“Great!” Jim’s practically bouncing, his energy level strangely high for the time of night. “You’re going to like this place.”

“Beer’s beer, kid,” John mumbles.

Jim laughs, the corners of his eyes pulling tight on his bruises. It has to hurt but he appears oblivious to any pain, just genuinely happy.

They walk to the bar, ten blocks east of his place. The sidewalks are clear save for a few bums and otherwise shady looking people. The wind’s bitter but John doesn’t mind; he loves walking in the city at night, when he can smell the salt from the ocean. It’s peaceful, or as peaceful as his little neighborhood in this dank section of the city can be.

“Where ya from?” John asks, making conversation and admittedly wanting to know more about Jim. He’s comfortable with Jim, like he can be himself. Well, the part of himself he allows others to see.

“Iowa,” says Jim without elaboration.

“How long you been in San Francisco?”

“Few months. You?”

“Couple years. Lived just about everywhere else too.” And isn’t that the truth; 207 years is a long time and there’re a lot of worlds to explore. Somehow, though, he always ends up back on Earth, living in San Francisco. “Why’d you come here?” John asks out of genuine curiosity. It is a big world, after all.

Jim shrugs, looking away, “Don’t know.” Obviously Jim doesn’t like talking about his past, and John, of all people, isn’t going to press him on it.

Everyone has secrets.

The bar’s a dive and apparently when Jim said it’s ‘chill’ he meant ‘empty’ because there’s a total of five patrons, including them. They sit at the bar, order drinks and chat with the bartender.

Jim’s good company, he always has an interesting story to tell and has the ability to bring anyone into the conversation and make them feel completely welcome, like they’ve been friends for years. He’s fearless and reckless, and while most people would consider those faults, John finds them admirable. The more time he spends with Jim, the more he wants to know.

He’s forgotten what it’s like to enjoy the company of others, to relax and just _be_. It’s refreshing and he thinks he could get used to it. Except, he remembers, he doesn’t have friends for a reason. It’s easier to have no one than someone who needs protecting from him. He has to remind himself what happens to the people in his orbit, what happened to _her_. His thoughts put a damper on is otherwise pleasant evening but luckily the bar closes before he kills the mood for the few others they’ve been chatting with.

They walk outside—Jim’s laughing and John’s trying not to scowl—and stand there for a silent moment. It’d be awkward if they weren’t already so oddly comfortable together. Finally, John mumbles something about needing to get some fucking sleep and Jim laughs, claps him on the back and leaves with a promise to see him later. John watches him walk in the opposite direction from his apartment and realizes Jim walked twice as far as he needed just to show up on John’s doorstep in hopes of having a beer at 0330. “Hm,” he thinks and turns to stalk back to his place and sulk.

It’s almost 0600 by the time he gets home and he’s too wired from the early morning air to sleep. It’s Sunday, meaning his Target should be home, and hopefully this time he’ll be alone. He packs his tools in their places inside his jacket and grabs an apple for the walk. The still empty sidewalks make the journey quick and he stops for a coffee at the corner café near the Target’s building. He waits outside at a table with an advantageous view and drinks his coffee.

It’s not long after when he sees the Target leave his building and walk directly toward him. John nonchalantly finishes his drink, discards his trash and walks past the Target, toward his building.

From the line at the coffee house, he estimates he has at the very least twenty minutes before the Target returns. He slips into the apartment as easily as before and thankfully it’s empty. He waits in the hallway, hidden from the entire living room and kitchen, but open enough to sneak up without detection.

As expected, the unsuspecting man returns twenty-five minutes later, sipping on his coffee. John listens to him shuffle through the newspaper at the kitchen counter and he waits until he moves to the couch. The subtle sound of the paper rustling every so often tells John he’s sitting comfortably, reading.

Five swift steps and he’s directly behind him, swinging the wire so quick the Target doesn’t have time to protest before his throat’s compressed. John’s skilled hands pull back and up, the garrote making the same lines of a noose. The man flails, clutching at his throat and John’s forearms. His legs kick wildly but he eventually subsides and slumps into the cushions. John waits another minute and checks to be sure the pulse is gone before he releases his firm hold. He steps back, takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

He often wonders when it became so easy for him to kill a man. He knows the man he was before Olduvai wasn’t too different from the man he is now but it used to be harder to deal with. He tells himself he’s lived too long and seen the destruction one man can cause. It’s a vain attempt to justify his actions. Then he looks in the mirror and thinks of the line of bodies trailing him. 

One man. Great destruction.

Maybe someday there will be a contract on this dangerous man.

He kills with precision so the clean up is quick and minimal, besides from the task of stringing the Target from a cord, using an architectural beam in the ceiling for support. He stops at the door before he leaves, giving the apartment a once over to be sure there are no traces of his presence.

All clear. He slips out the door.

He’s down half a flight of stairs when he passes a woman who’s telling her kids to be good for Daddy and that she’ll pick them up tonight. She smiles at him as he passes and he nods. The boy and girl run up the stairs and the woman turns to continue down behind him. It’s mere moments later when a high-pitched scream comes from the floor above. He stops in his tracks and doesn’t need to turn to know the woman’s already running back up the stairs, screaming for her children.

He’s frozen, listening to their cries, and knows— _knows_ —they just found their father hanging in his living room. The girl’s cries ring above the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. There’re other footsteps now, the neighbors coming to see what’s the matter. He hears gasps and someone yelling to call 911.

He blinks, his gloved hand holding tight to the railing. It’s the distant siren that snaps him out of his trance. As quickly and quietly as he can, he rushes down the stairs to the garage level. Sure not to run—because you _never_ run from a crime scene—he walks out the back of the parking garage to an adjacent street.

He walks robotically, further and further away from the sirens, until he feels himself start to panic. He turns down an alleyway and doesn’t stop until he reaches the end. He leans his forehead against the cold brick wall of the building, attempting to breathe slower and gain some semblance of control.

He was a fool to ever think he could do this job and remain unaffected. It’s not that he doesn’t know what he’s been doing. He knows he’s a murderer, but as long as he didn’t think about the consequences of their deaths, he could manage. If he looked at the targets as malevolent beings without connections or families, or _fucking children_ , he could kill them without the crushing guilt currently pressing down on him.

“Fuck!” He slams his fist into the wall, relishing in the temporary pain vibrating up his arm. He can still hear the kids’ terrified screams and he knows he just changed their lives for the worse. Regardless if the man was bad or not, seeing their dad strung from the ceiling is going to ruin their innocence forever. _Fuuuck!_

He pushes off the wall and wipes the blood from his already healed knuckles. Fucking C-24. His fists clench and unclench as he walks out to the street again. He stops at the first liquor store he passes. He may have quick regenerating cells but he’s learned if he overwhelms them he can feel the intended effects and that’s exactly what he needs right now.


	2. Chapter 2

Two bottles of Jack later, he finds himself hunched on a bar stool at the same hole-in-the-wall bar he met Jim days before. “Leave the bottle,” he mumbles to the bartender who’s just poured him another. The girl gives him an unsure and sympathetic look but finally sets the bottle next to his glass. He lifts his drink to her with a nod of gratitude and downs it with closed eyes, relishing the burn down his throat, willing it wash away everything he doesn’t want to feel.

He grabs the bottle and glass, and stumbles away from the bar to his now familiar booth in the back. The glass and whiskey skitter loudly across the table as he inelegantly drops into the booth. The waitresses watch him wearily but they don’t say a word or try to cut him off, and that’s exactly why he chose this bar. They leave him alone to drown in his guilt.

He lights another cigarette and pours until the glass overflows, watching as the swirling liquor settles. He wonders if those little kids—who’s lives he just destroyed—will grow up to a killer like him, if he’s driven them to become the thing that ruined their otherwise quaint life. The girl’s screams still ring in his ears, a stark reminder of when his once quaint life was destroyed.

He remembers it all so clearly; the officer on his doorstep asking if he’s Jocelyn McCoy’s husband and the way his chest tightened as he answered ‘yes.’ The smell of the morgue when he identified her body and the earth shattering guilt when he discovered she was killed because of the person he used to be. The only comforting memory he has is the look on the fucker’s face when John hunted him down and put a bullet through his head.

She’d be so ashamed of him now.

He picks up his glass—the whiskey spilling over his hand—and drinks it all in one swig.

Someone slides into the seat across from him. “You look like shit,” Jim says.

John stares at a knot in the wooden table and holds his cigarette to his lips. “Fuck off,” he barks, taking a drag.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Jim says. He sounds amused and John can see him grinning in his peripheral vision.

“Why don’t you go bother someone else?” John snaps, looking up at Jim, hoping he’ll leave him alone to wallow and already knowing he won’t.

Jim’s demeanor changes when he looks John in the eyes, his playful expression suddenly concerned. “What happened?”

John groans, exasperated. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” Jim leans onto the table, to be closer in the noisy bar. “When’s the last time you slept?”

John tries to remember but he honestly can’t. He shrugs with a grunt and pours another drink. Jim’s watching and waiting for the explanation John’s not going to give.

“Come on man, what’s going on?” Jim presses.

“What the fuck do you want from me?” John’s thinly veiled anger is about to burst. In the back of his mind, he doesn’t want to take it out on Jim, because he likes Jim, but the alcohol is finally affecting him exactly like he wants.

Jim, the fucker, doesn’t have the decency to fight back. “I want to help.” His voice is all concern and John just wants to punch him in his beautiful face.

John leans forward on his elbows and takes a long drag. “Did you ever think,” smoke spills out with his words, “maybe I don’t want some young piece of ass following me around?”

Jim’s head quirks, the corners of his mouth twitching up, “Piece of ass?”

_Uh…_

Jim’s fucking grinning at him but John doesn’t know what to say. In fact, he thinks he’s said enough. He crushes his cigarette in the ashtray, downs his last drink in a quick gulp and leaves a perplexed Jim without another word.

It’s well past midnight and the alley out the back entrance is already damp with fog from the bay. Jim’s pushes through the door behind him and John turns back, half laughing and yelling, “Leave me alone.” He’s vaguely aware how ridiculous he’s acting—like a little girl being picked on by the cute boy in the schoolyard—but in the scope of his day, he can’t bring himself to care.

Jim watches him silently. It’s infuriating. 

“Oh, now you decide to shut up?” John antagonizes him, stepping closer. He’s not consciously looking for a fight but any kind of rise out of Jim would be better than the concerned puppy eyes he keeps giving. “You screw up my job and don’t have anything to say for yourself?”

Jim’s brow knits together in confusion, and oh that’s right, John realizes, Jim doesn’t know he made John lose his target that night in the bar. He doesn’t know he prevented John from killing the man on a day his kids wouldn’t walk in on him swaying back and forth from his fucking neck.

He doesn’t know John’s a monster, a killer of fathers.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Couple of bottles.” John says with an empty laugh.

“Jesus, Bones,” Jim exclaims and moves toward him, hand outstretched. “Let me take you home,” he says, and it’s almost a plea.

John levels him in the eye and says, slow and pointedly, “Fuck. You.”

He hoped the walk home would give his metabolism enough time to sober him up but he still feels wrecked by the time he reaches his building. The four-story climb to his apartment helps to bring his senses back to a reasonable level but he struggles to unlock the door, his hands shaking—whether from alcohol or guilt, he doesn’t know. Finally the stubborn key slides into the lock and just as he opens the door, Jim jogs up the stairs and pushes his way in before John has a chance to slam it in his face.

“Stalking’s a crime, y’know,” says John, glowering the best he can, which is pretty damn good.

“What’s wrong with you? What happened?” he asks again, and John doesn’t understand why he cares so much.

“It’s none of your goddamn business.” He pushes Jim in the chest, forcing him back a step. Jim doesn’t protest so John pushes him again, stepping beyond the barrier of personal space. He stares into the striking blue eyes and doesn’t stop shoving until Jim’s back is against the wall. Jim just surveys him, ostensibly unconcerned by John’s hostility and John can’t figure out what it’s going to take for this kid to realize he shouldn’t be around him.

“You helped me out the other night,” Jim says, almost sheepishly, his swagger slipping. “Let me return the favor.”

John looks at him closely, his eyes trailing up and down Jim’s body. He cocks his head slightly and leaves no room for misinterpretation when he says, “I could kill you right now.”

If Jim’s startled at all by John’s words, he hides it well. “Then do it.”

John pauses for a moment then pulls the gun from behind his shirt. He feels a rush of delight when he finally receives an appropriate response from Jim’s widening eyes. He keeps his position, pinning Jim against the wall, and reaches to set the gun on a nearby shelf. “You were sayin’?”

Whatever fear or shock Jim momentarily felt vanishes and he leans forward, as if daring John to act. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

It’s then when John realizes what he should’ve a while ago—Jim Kirk isn’t like most. Yes, he’s a loner like John and enticed by the dangerous unknown, but now John sees he’s not just a typical arrogant jackass. Jim’s bravado is real; he wants the challenge and thrill—the danger. Well, fuck it. Who is John to deny him? He closes the space between them, his lips hovering a breaths width from Jim’s, “Guess not.”

Jim’s the one to make the final move, crushing his lips into John’s. He runs his hands down John’s back and pulls at his hips to grind their bodies together. John groans into Jim’s mouth, his tongue sliding across his lower lip, tasting its way inside. Jim tastes like whiskey and adventure.

He can feel the adrenaline rushing between them. He slides his hands under the back of Jim’s shirt and pulls him away from the wall. Jim’s warm skin isn’t like anything he’s felt in years, it like electricity under his palms. He nips at Jim’s bottom lip and Jim moans, his breath hot and luscious against John’s.

“Shit, Bones.”

“Don’t call me that,” John rasps breathlessly into his mouth.

Jim grins around his tongue, “You like it.”

John pulls away and forcefully pushes him against the wall again, making Jim smile back ravenously.

“No. I don’t.” John stares at him predatorily. He has one hand against Jim’s chest, holding him in place, and he slides the other below Jim’s waistband, brushing his fingers teasingly over Jim’s dick. He grins at the groan it pulls from Jim’s pink lips. “I’m gonna fuck you,” John breathes and he takes Jim’s shuddering gasp as permission.

John pulls him forward, carelessly striping off his clothes to reveal golden and still bruised skin. Jim pushes John’s jacket off and pulls his shirt up and they stagger into the living room, wrapped in a mess of limbs and fabric. Jim doesn’t get further than unzipping John’s jeans before John’s got him against the closest piece of furniture, leaning over the back of the chair.

It’s not tender or sacred and John has to remind himself to control his strength when he catches Jim’s small wince after his saliva-slicked fingers slide into him a little too forcefully. John takes a breath to gather his self-restraint and slows his deft actions, soaking in the beauty that is Jim Kirk’s tight body. The faded bruises on Jim’s back remind him that Jim hasn’t had enough time to recover from his injuries and that he should be careful, but then Jim starts to groan and press back into his hand and it’s so salacious that he forgets everything and adds another finger because—fuck—he can’t wait much longer.

Jim makes a sound that can only be described as a whimper when John slides his fingers out. John starts to fumble with his jeans to release his cock and he suddenly realizes he doesn’t have any lube within arms reach. “Fuck,” he mumbles, staring helplessly around the room, as if a bottle will suddenly appear by the might of his will.

“Here,” Jim says, turning and kneeling as he shoves John’s pants down his thighs. John keeps his eyes trained on Jim, not willing to miss of second of that mouth around his cock. It’s like he imagined but inordinately better. Jim’s tongue and lips feel like hot silk against his skin, swathing him in a warm bath of pleasure.

Jim pulls back with a pop and looks up with a wicked grin, his lips wet and rosy. He stands again and kisses John fiercely. John tastes the smirk off his face and turns him around, not willing to wait a moment longer, regardless of how much he likes kissing him. Jim laughs but lets John bend him over the chair. John puts a hand on the small of Jim’s back and slides in without a second’s hesitation, eliciting his own throaty moan. Jim’s tight and hot around him, and it’s been so long since he’s fucked someone like him—so young and gorgeous—he knows its going to be amazing, and probably embarrassingly quick.

He tries to keep it slow but Jim starts to make illicit noises and rocks back so John reaches a strong arm around and pulls Jim toward him. He gropes across Jim’s heaving chest down to his dripping cock. He grips and strokes in motion with his thrusts, his hand slick with sweat and pre-cum. John pulls at Jim’s hips and takes him cock-deep, angling just right.

“Fuuuck,” Jim hisses beneath a deep groan, bucking back against him when John grazes his prostate. John increases his speed, riding the heat and tremors radiating between them. He licks a trail up Jim’s spine and bites when he reaches the nape of his neck, making Jim squirm.

“Oh fuck, Bones,” Jim sputters through gasps.

John smiles, pulls him tighter and fucks him harder, the fervent pressure building. He shifts again and Jim stiffens under him, spilling over John’s hand with a low guttural moan, and it’s the sexiest thing John’s ever heard. He thrusts again and has to bite Jim’s shoulder to suppress a pathetically lewd gasp as he comes, and he doesn’t stop as he rides the waves of the best sex he’s had in far too long.

They pant silently, bodies still wrapped together and twitching with aftershocks. Eventually, John peels away and uses his discarded shirt to clean up. He steps back to pull up his pants but keeps his eyes on Jim, taking in the sight of his flushed smile and half naked glory as he pulls up his own pants from around his ankles.

John gives him a lopsided grin that Jim returns with a smile so bright it almost lights up the shadowed room.

**\\\**

John wakes to someone knocking loudly on his door. He groans and untangles himself from Jim’s heavy limbs. He barely manages to pull on sweats and pads to the door, lazily running his hand over his face and through his hair. “What’s so damned important,” he calls to whomever has the nerve to wake him so early. He twists the knob and before it’s pulled back an inch, someone forces it open. Two men enter, each grabbing John by his upper arms and they shove him back against the nearest wall.

“Get your hands off me,” John says through gritted teeth. He’s about to shove them off and kick some ass when another man comes through the door.

“Hello John,” he says with a disapproving grin.

“Donley,” John snarls at his employer, “What the fuck do you want?” He pushes against the arms holding him, sure not to actually throw them off. It’s useful to let people like Donley believe they have physical leverage over him.

“I received a call last night,” Donley motions for the men to release John, “from a source inside the police department. It appears you didn’t follow our deadline.”

John adjusts his stance after they let him go. Back straight, shoulders leveled. “Fuck your deadlines, the job is done.”

Donley lets out a patronizing laugh. “There are deadlines in place for a reason, Grimm, and your blatant disregard has put us in quite a predicament.”

“What are you talking about?” John says to Donley but his eyes are on the man wandering down the hall, near his bedroom, where a sleeping Jim lies.

“I’m talking about-” he’s utterly condescending and it takes all of John’s self control to not break his neck. Killing the boss doesn’t bode well for his resume, after all. “-you jeopardizing my business by getting fucking caught!” Donley yells.

_Oh. That._

John’s mild surprise makes Donley even angrier. “A woman saw a strange man leaving her ex-husband’s building, wearing gloves. You realize how that looks don’t you, John? She saw your fucking face!”

_Fuck._

His heart starts to hammer in his chest, flushing him with adrenaline. He feels like he should be forming some sort of escape plan—change of name, city, planet even. Pack a bag and don’t look back. See ya around, Jim, it’s been real—but all he can think is ‘I deserve this.’

And he does. There’d be no point in counting—it’s not like he actually wants to know—the number of souls he’s taken in his lifetime. Maybe this is it, his retribution finally come to pass. He often wonders why he’s allowed to live so long while other—much better—people perish constantly around him. Why is he worthy of life when all he does is destroy it?

“Grimm!” Donley snaps his fingers in John’s face and he reacts without thinking, grabbing the wrist in front of him. He gives Donley a hard look, eyes narrowing, and squeezes, eliciting nothing but a cringe from the equally hard man. Strong hands push against him, trying to pull him away. He blinks, realizing they aren’t budging him, and finally releases Donley’s wrist. He allows the men to slam him back into the wall again.

Donley’s a well-connected and dangerous man, and even if John wants snap him like a twig he needs his connections at the moment. He can’t lose it with Jim in the other room, either, and if anyone can fix his fuck up it’s the man before him.

Donley nods to one of the men and a strong fist to his gut follows. He playacts, letting the force knock him back with a grunt of artificial pain. Keeping up appearances.

“Alright,” John says, bending over and breathing heavier than he needs, for effect. “I fucked up, ok? I’ll fix it.”

“I think you’ve done enough,” Donley sneers angrily. He walks to John, leans down and places a hand on his shoulder. “Listen John,” his tone is suddenly softer, confirming to John that Donley is indeed a psychopath. “You know I like you. You’re the best man I’ve got so I’m going to do you a solid.” Donley waits for him to respond but he doesn’t; he doesn’t even blink.

Donley glares a little but gives up and says, “My source at the department is conveniently misplacing anything that might implicate either of us.”

John breathes a sign of relief, remembering the one thing he likes about Donley; he’s resourceful. “I owe ya one,” he says with a nod.

“Fuck yes you do.” Donley smiles and slaps his hand on John’s bare back. “Lay low for a few weeks, and for gods sake, don’t do anything stupid!”

John’s response dies on his lips when he looks up to Jim standing at the edge of the room. “What’s going on?” Jim asks, his tone already defensive, sensing the tension in the air and obviously seeing John hunched over in fake pain.

Donley looks at Jim—who’s wearing only his jeans, low and loose around his hips, and looks thoroughly fucked—and flashes an amused smirk back at John. “Donley,” he greets, extending his hand. “I’m a friend of John’s.”

Jim raises a curious eyebrow and spares a glance to John at the mention of his real name. He shakes Donley’s hand, cautiously, “Jim Kirk.”

Shit, John thinks, rolling his eyes. Doesn’t Jim know better than to give his real name to the shady man who brought _henchmen_ with him?

“Nice to meet you, Jim Kirk.” Donley feigns pleasantries and the way he says Jim’s name—like he’s memorizing it—makes John cringe inside. He knows Donley will use Jim against him if needed. It’s a staunch reminder as to why he shouldn’t bring people into his life.

Jim nods but then looks to John, his eyes asking if there’s trouble. John doesn’t give him a response, knowing Jim’s might try something that’ll get him killed and these men don’t mess around.

Donley’s fully aware of what’s happening between them so John looks away from Jim. “Is there anything else?” he asks curtly.

Donley glares at him for a moment then his thin lips move into a sinister smile. “I think that covers it, _John_ ,” he says, clearly having noticed Jim’s reaction to John’s name. “I’ll be in touch.” He walks to the door, his men following, and pauses to say, “Remember what I said, John. Don’t do anything stupid.”

John can hear Donley laughing after he closes the door and he hates him just a little bit more for leaving with that vague comment, which will undoubtedly have Jim asking questions he can’t answer.

Jim’s watching him curiously but doesn’t speak, and John’s grateful because the only way he’s going to get out of explaining is to be an absolute ass. Although, that might be his best option, because he knows he can’t continue to see Jim now that Donley’s met him. The realization hurts to admit because he thinks he just might like the bastard more than he should. It’s the right thing to do, though. If he had made this choice with Jocelyn, she might not have been killed because of the man he is and the dangerous people he attracts.

“Are you ok?” Jim finally asks.

John rolls his eyes but then remembers getting punched is supposed to hurt. He sighs—he’s sick of pretending—and walks to the kitchen instead of answering.

Jim follows him. “What the hell was that about? Who was that guy?”

“Nothing and no one,” John answers shortly. He pulls the carton of orange juice from the fridge and takes a drink.

“Bullshit. I know flunkies when I see ‘em. That jackass is bad news, isn’t he?”

“Really?” John replies, eyebrow rising to the ceiling, still standing in front of the open refrigerator. “If you knew he’s bad news, why the fuck did you give him your real name?”

“Oh, I don’t know, _Leonard_ ,” Jim spits back. “Wait… its John now, right?”

“Christ, kid!” John shouts, slamming the fridge door for added effect. He doesn’t want to do this—really, _really_ doesn’t—but he’s got to protect Jim now, and that means not being anywhere near him. “You think I owe you any kind of explanation? ‘Cause I don’t and you ain’t gettin’ one!”

Jim’s features turn dark, “Hell yes you do,” he says angrily. “Yesterday, you were ranting that I screwed up your job—what the fuck does that even mean?” he throws his hands out in frustration and points back to the entryway. “I’m willing to bet Donley has something to do with it and he knows me now. I’m involved.”

John’s impressed, but he tries really hard to not let it show. It doesn’t matter now, anyway. He can’t tell Jim about Donley, and he certainly isn’t going to tell him about himself and who he really is and what he does. “Involved?” John scoffs. “Don’t think because we fucked you mean anything to me.” He walks past Jim without a second glance—because he doesn’t think he can handle seeing anything resembling hurt in those gorgeous blue eyes.

Jim’s at his heals but John ignores him, picking up Jim’s shirt, still lying on the floor from the night before, and tosses it at him before he can retort. “Get out.” This time he does see the hurt on Jim’s face. Disappointment mixed with confusion, and rightly so, because why would John bother with him sleeping over—not to mention, for lack of a better word, the cuddling—if he was just going to toss him out in the morning.

“What?” Jim’s holding his shirt against his chest and looks honestly perplexed by John’s sudden and angry change.

John looks him in the eye and clearly says, “Get out.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Jim says furiously.

“Right now? You.” he sneers, “Now get the fuck out of my house!”

Jim’s wounded expression is quickly masked with a blasé attitude. “Whatever man,” he says, shaking his head, and he pulls his shirt on. He gathers his shoes and jacket and leaves without looking back.

John tries to tell himself that he did the right thing. That’s he’s protecting him. Jim might be upset for a short while but he’ll get over it. Then again, he might not be upset at all. Jim doesn’t strike him as someone who’s a romantic and its not like they’ve even known each other long. Maybe John’s an idiot for even thinking Jim cares how he treats him. Maybe John’s just another notch in Jim’s bedpost, which is already nicked to the hilt, he’s sure.

Or maybe John’s the one who’s hurt and upset for losing another person before he’s actually able to enjoy their companionship. Maybe he’s sick and tired of being alone and thought, for a brief moment, that Jim would want to be with him too.

Just maybe.

**\\\**

If John were an honest man, he’d admit that what he’s doing is considered stalking, but he’s not so he won’t. And really, it’s all for Jim’s own protection, or at least that’s what he keeps telling himself. He wants to be sure Donley is staying far away is all, and he appears to be doing so, which pleases John because he’d prefer to not to kill the man unless its absolutely necessary.

Donley contacted him a few days after that dreaded morning, confirming his source had indeed destroyed any evidence that implicated him. He also took John off the contract killing market for an unknown period of time, wanting him to continue his low profile to ensure their mutual safety and anonymity. To John, it’s the perfect opportunity to get out of town and leave his murderous life behind. Yet, when it comes to actually leaving, he’s finding it harder than he thought. He tells himself it’s because he brought a potential downfall upon Jim, thus he needs to be sure he’s safe, but the truth is he can’t stop thinking about him.

That’s why he’s sitting on the roof across from Jim’s apartment building in the middle of the night, watching him through the small windows. It wasn’t hard to find out where Jim lives and he sleeps better knowing Jim’s home safe, and not out at some bar getting his ass kicked. Or, you know, being killed by one of John’s more untoward associates.

Jim hasn’t contacted him or shown up on his doorstep—not that he expects it, after the way they parted—and he can’t help feeling disappointed. Even though they’ve only known each other for a short while, John liked when Jim popped into his world and kept him company with his stupid smile and smart-ass remarks. He had hoped maybe Jim felt the same about him.

John lights another cigarette and leans back on his hands. Jim’s been home most of the evening, alternating between reading, eating and exercising. John wonders how someone with Jim’s high energy level can stand living in that tiny room he rents. Although, after watching him work several menial jobs around town, it appears Jim doesn’t have much of a choice. What John doesn’t understand, though, is why Jim washes dishes, parks cars and works security when he’s capable of so much more. To each his own, he supposes.

Jim’s sleeping now, splayed out on his pullout sofa bed with a thin sheet covering his naked body. John tried to look away—he really did—when Jim undressed, but what Jim doesn’t know won’t hurt him. He puffs on his cigarette, deciding to leave for the night, and he wonders when he’s going to grow a pair and leave Jim alone to his live his life in peace.

**\\\**

It’s been three weeks—not that he’s counting—since he last spoke with Jim and consequently started ‘stalking’ him. Every night, on the walk to Jim’s apartment, he tells himself this is the last. There hasn’t been any indication that Jim’s on Donley’s radar; that he’s anything more than John’s one-night fuck. Really, John has no reason to continue watching him, and yet here he is climbing the stairs to the roof with the best view.

He reaches the edge of the building, looking over to Jim’s place as he gets situated, and instantly knows something’s wrong. The light is dim but he can see the room is thoroughly trashed. He doesn’t stop to think of an explanation, or that he probably shouldn’t go barging in, before he’s running back down the staircase and sprinting across the street and into the building.

He pauses outside of Jim’s door, which is ajar with the lock and frame broken from being forced open. With his gun firmly in hand—safety off—he pushes it open and says a silent prayer that he won’t find Jim slumped and bloody in the corner.

He doesn’t, thank whoever-the-fuck.

The room is empty save for the mess. The mirror that used to hang by the door is now in a multitude of pieces that crunch under his boots as he cautiously navigates the small space. The few pieces of furniture Jim owned are strewn about; the table is overturned and one of its two chairs is broken, as if someone tried to use it as a weapon. The framed poster hanging on the opposite wall is cracked, the glass splintered in a circular pattern with trails of blood flowing from the center.

John clenches his jaw as he investigates closer. The blood is still drying, meaning the attack wasn’t long ago, and there are a number of short blond hairs—most likely Jim’s— mixed with the blood and glass. John turns back to the room, lowering his poised arms, and snarls. Mother fucking Donley.

He’s going to kill him.

Donley’s office is twenty-some blocks east and he starts running the second his foot hits the sidewalk. He hopes Donley’s stupid enough to take Jim there, which is doubtful considering John knows where the office is located. If anything, John’ll find someone he can beat information out of and that’s enough reason to go.

He takes a quick turn down an alley, hoping to cut a block off his route, but it’s blocked by a delivery truck. “Fuck!” he exclaims and turns back the way he came. Thankfully the hour of night has cleared of most of the foot traffic but he’s still not moving as fast as he needs to be. He ignores the ‘don’t walk’ signal, dodges around a car that almost hits him and picks up his pace.

Guilt’s already nagging at him; it’s his fault Jim’s wherever he is, beaten and bleeding, or worse. He shouldn’t have let Jim stay after they slept together. Hell, he shouldn’t have had him stay that first night. It feels like Jocelyn all over again, his sprint to find Jim eerily mirroring his walk to the coroner’s to indentify her body.

He’s racing so fast he nearly passes the building that houses Donley’s front business. The lock to the private entrance is jammed—broken—and he only lets it faze him for a second before he’s inside and running to the turbo lift in the back that goes directly to their floor.

He’s wired as the lift escalates and when it opens, he’s immediately struck by a rancid smell he knows all too well, the smell of death. He pulls his gun again and steps into the lobby of the office. The stench of blood grows stronger as he reaches the doors to Donley’s private office. He pushes them open with gun leveled out before him but freezes at the sight before him. Donley’s sitting in the chair behind his desk but he’s fallen forward, the upper half of his body resting in a large cherry colored pool atop his desk. His ever-present henchmen are crumpled in front of the desk, weapons in hand, wearing matching phaser wounds.

“Shit,” he whispers, stepping carefully around the men to the desk, to check Donley’s pulse, as if the seeping hole in between his eyes weren’t clue enough. Fuck, if Donley didn’t take Jim, who did? Jim being abducted on the same night of Donley’s assassination is no coincidence. His eyes do a quick sweep of the room; no obvious indicators of what happened, other than the certainty that whoever is responsible is a professional.

A faint gurgled moan from outside the room catches John’s attention. He leaves, closing the carnage behind the doors and follows the pained sounds into an adjacent room. It’s a supply closet and the man John knows as Donley’s assistant—Quentin, he thinks—is lying on his side, clutching his chest with shaking, stained hands.

John kneels next to him—still warm blood soaking through his jeans—and places a hand on the shuddering shoulder. “Hey,” John says, aiming for comforting and hoping the kid can’t see his pity. Quentin looks up at him with terrified eyes. “What happened?” John asks and he’s never felt like more of an ass. The kid’s dying but he knows he can’t do anything to help because his trained eye tells him he’s beyond the point of no return. Yet there’re questions he needs answered. If there’s anything good in the world, he’ll be able to at least save one innocent soul tonight. He selfishly hopes its Jim’s.

“I... don’t,” Quentin starts but sputters blood instead.

“Who did this?” John presses, ignoring the doctor in his head screaming to not stress the dying.

Quentin shakes his head. “There w-was a woman and two men… don’t k-know who.” He shuts his eyes tight and asks, “Is everyone d-dead?”

John squeezes his shoulder and nods, “Yes.” Poor kid, he thinks. Sure, he probably knew what kind of person he was working for—you can’t be the personal assistant of a contractor and not know—but he didn’t deserve this; to die slow and painfully.

“Do you know what they were after?” John asks.

The pained eyes lock on him—and it’s the closest thing to an actual knife to the gut. “You.”

John blinks helplessly, guilt seizing him. He looks away from Quentin’s accusing eyes and swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says, shamefully. He gives the kid one last remorseful glance and rises.

“Hey, d-don’t leave me,” Quentin pleads. “Hey!”

John turns away, ignoring him because he knows he can’t help. It’s too late for Quentin but maybe not for Jim.

And they have Jim.

**Author's Note:**

> come at me, bro: [tumblr](http://clarkoholic.tumblr.com/)


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